


Mad tea party

by Dunadanka



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunadanka/pseuds/Dunadanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of dragons, neighbors and healing powers of hot tea</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad tea party

The house was empty. Not that it had ever been any other way. It was today when it simply became unbearable. 

He lingered at the door, screwing up his strength to enter, then dropped his briefcase at the stairs and went around the rooms, big, beautiful rooms filled with expensive things and perfect order. Checking if everything was in place. If anything was missing... Ever since that fire long ago he had been living in constant fear of breaking so much as a cup, of losing yet something more.

Huh. 

He was checking, if anything new had appeared.

Of course not. As if it were possible!.. But today simple and sensible things kept jumping at him from around the corner like some wicked jack-in-the-box. He had been building this house for all his life, and was always so proud of every tile on the floor, every post of the handrails, every fork and spoon on the table. He made, earned all this by himself, and his life, his job, his bank account and his airport priority pass - all these things were a monument to his devotion and strength, his will to go forth with no regret of the bloody foam on his sides, spurring himself ever forward through laziness and "I do not want", through faithlessness and exhaustion, away from the horrible dragon of meaninglessness hot at his heels. 

And when his castle was finally finished, the dragon welcomed him at the doors.

He went, ran out into the garden, like a panicking kid for the first time left home alone, like a furious teen after a family row, and understanding that he could have long been a father to both these characters fell on his shoulders like a sack of stones. He sat down on the fence, tuckered out, barely able to move, older than aging itself. He stared at the sky, ahead and above and below, in shiny silver pools after recent rain. Pale blue and red, pillowed with pinkish bloody cottons of clouds, it seemed dying too, like he was, and then suddenly the clouds parted, jerked to the sides as a theatre curtain, and the sun punched him in the face with its cheeky golden fists. 

Fool. What are you thinking of... Fool! 

A shadow fell on him, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw his neighbor. An involuntary snort escaped him at this sight: a velvet jacket and wellington boots, with a scarf and a handkerchief in his breast pocket, with a vest under the jacket, and its buttons are shining… Soft round onion in his zillion layers of clothes, awkwardly cosy and making even the weeding of daffodils under his windows look savory. He was so often digging in soil he must have got used to it more than any deadman. Yet he was so unbearably alive.

He was holding two mugs, steaming with white and think vapor in the cool evening air. He sat down on the fence too, very close, without any greetings. They never did that, never said any "good evenings" or so, just nodded to each other, for years, when one was getting into his car heading to the airport, issuing orders to the army of assistants and referents on the phone, his pockets still full of airline biscuits from a dozen of previous flights, and the other was out to collect the newspaper from the lawn, a coffee mug in hand and a scent of home-made cookies coming through his kitchen door and trailing after him like a king's mantle.  
The sky had burnt out, it was calm, no longer bleeding, its pale lazurite lazily growing dark, deep, bottomless like the abyss in his chest. For years he had been throwing there his cold heavy gold, just like coins into a fountain, to come back. And they were disappearing somewhere there, not filling anything up, and his heart was heavy with this emptiness. And he wanted to leave but could not. 

The neighbor turned to him and handed him a mug.

‘Tea?’

Surprised by himself, he nodded and took the mug. It burnt his fingers, and the vapor went ticklish and warm into his nose. He made a sip and burnt his mouth and everything farther as well, and this warmth fell into the same very hole where all his life before it, wrapped in banknotes like fish and chips in paper, and somewhere there, deep inside he suddenly saw this warmth shining and splashing. And if so, then there must be a bottom to this abyss, and tea is filling it better than anything he had tried before. In his mind he boyishly snapped his fingers, throwing a shiny circle of a coin down there, to return again, to this place, to this moment, because where else is there for him to return? We eat to live, not live to eat, that's what makes the world go round, everything is just to put some bread on your table, and his table was of rosewood and his bread was ten quid for a loaf, but what of it if he had been starving for so long he no longer could feel any hunger? What to do than, what to live for? 

The train of logic and familiarity was coming off the rails and tumbling down a slope, and he was sitting here and gazing at the skies. And his neighbor had excellent tea, and now, just now, was it not enough to stay and drink bottom up, for his throat had been unsqueezed even if for a bit, letting, finally letting something from outside come in. Even if he had not deserved it at all, hadn't payed for it, hadn't even asked. He didn't even know his neighbor's name, for what it's worth, just a Mr Baggings. "Who are you, o glorious knight?" - that's what you're supposed to ask the one who rescues you from a dragon. But Mr Baggins didn't have a helmet to take off. And he didn't have a handkerchief to give him as a token of gratitude. Mr Baggins handed him his own one. And ashamed and happy he wiped his eyes, racked his pockets and offered in a harsh and shaky voice:

‘You want a biscuit?’

 Mr Baggins smiled and took one.


End file.
